


Annus horribilis

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Untagged character cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "And why not?  This last  month has been a marked improvement over the eleven that preceded it.  First France foolishly stopped regulating cursed cheese, then there was the plague in Russia, and then that unforeseen dragon migration up through Central America, and Sempit--"
"Sempiterna the Soprano died," said Newt.  "They were actually quite devastated in Sudan."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the comment that 1926 was like the wizarding world's 2016, except they put their crazy, coke-bloated Nazi analog in jail.

The answering Patronus said they were at the edge of the Forest, near the lake, and Newt smiled. He'd always been happiest at school when he could be outside. He'd also liked the owlery--the owls had always been happy to see him, even when he wasn't bringing them bits of food from the kitchen, and Leta would often meet him up there.

It wasn't all bad, he thought, as the gates swung open and he passed through them. Last time he'd been here, two weeks ago, the memory of his expulsion had drowned almost everything else out, but now in the early winter twilight, snow crunching underfoot and case swinging by his side, it was easy to remember how much fun it had frequently been. He stopped once to say hello to the squid--its tentacle shivered and was quickly retracted--and marvel at how big it was getting, although it had been a good fifteen years. It had been so tiny back then, so small he'd been able to stick it in a soup tureen and levitate it to its new home. He didn't linger, though, in case the mermaids still were angry about Ollie. 

Besides, he could see Dumbledore now at the edge of the trees, or at least Dumbledore's indigo robes. 

"Newt," he said cheerfully, as he drew closer. He looked much the same as he had when Newt had first come to make his request, and that was the same as he had at school. "It is always good to see you--although, i think, your Patronus has changed?"

"Oh," said Newt. "Yes, yes it has." Dumbledore just looked at him over the top of his glasses, blue eyes twinkling and expectant. "It's now a Swooping Evil. They aren't actually evil, that's just what the original Australian Muggles call them."

"But--if your Patronus is anything to go by--they do swoop?"

"They do. Er--sir--?"

"Forgive me," said Dumbledore, smiling and turning. "Of course you wish to know how Credence is doing. Quite well, all things considered, but you can always see for yourself."

It took Newt longer to spot Credence. He was a few feet into the forest, and wearing a black Muggle suit not unlike the one he'd had in New York. He also had a Gryffindor scarf--one of Dumbledore's, Newt suspected, though he could not say why--wrapped around his neck, and was currently stroking a Thestral's mane. 

"He likes them," Albus said quietly. "They calm him down."

He certainly looked calmer than Newt had ever seen him. With the Second Salemers he had always looked awkward. As the Obscurus he had alternated between furious and miserable. And aboard the liner he had seemed lost. Sometimes Newt had found him on deck, clutching the railing and staring down into the sea below, the sea that churned and roiled not unlike the form of his Obscurus. 

One of those times, Credence had caught Newt watching. Had looked up, into his eyes. "I'm not going to jump," he'd said, softly. "I promise."

That hadn't been something Newt had even thought to worry about before, and he'd spent the rest of the mercifully brief trip wondering if he should lock Credence in the case until they got to Liverpool. 

He hadn't been much better on the trip to London. Diagon Alley had awakened a sort of interest in him--looking everywhere with his eyes downcast, and pretending not to be looking--until he'd nearly stumbled over a wretched beggar woman and emptied his pockets of Muggle money in apology. And then he'd been quiet, on the train, asking, after staring out of the window for hours on end, "You have magic, but you still have poverty?"

"Well." Newt had been working on edits in his manuscript, and he nearly dropped his quill in surprise. "Yes."

"Mr. Graves--" A shadow passed over Credence's face. "Mr. Graves always made it sound like magic could fix everything."

"A lot of wizards truly believe it can. But their definition of fixing things usually doesn't mean feeding the hungry, or protecting innocent creatures. It means fixing things for themselves--and they usually don't need much fixed, either." He tried not to think about how many of his parents' acquaintances were perfectly fine with poisoning what they saw as pests in order to make their own hedges more uniform, or murdering helpless creatures to sell their parts, or buying those parts to decorate their mansions. He scrunched up his nose. "Although I think Muggles have some of those types too."

"Like Senator Shaw," Credence said softly.

It took Newt a moment to place the name. The Muggle Credence had killed, the one MACUSA had thought his beasts responsible for. 

The first Muggle Credence had killed. Hardly a surprise, then, that he could see the Thestrals. He wondered if Dumbledore had explained yet that they were invisible to most people. 

"Hello, Mr. Scamander," said Credence. 

"Newt, please," he said, stepping forward to shake Credence's hand. It was covered in blood, but there was still meat in the bucket, and Newt had never minded feeding the Thestrals, even when he couldn't see them. Even when he hadn't known exactly what they ate, and tried to tempt them at the beginning of each school year with a new experiment: apples, hay, chocolate frogs. Professor Kettleblack had finally taken pity on him shortly before he'd been expelled--and shortly after Professor Kettleblack had lost his hand and needed help. "I'm not that much older than you." He dug out a piece of entrails for the colt nosing shyly at his trousers. 

"Newt," said Credence, almost tentatively. 

Newt grinned and rubbed behind the colt's ear. "How's Hogwarts treating you?"

And Credence stammered a lot, and he didn't meet Newt's eyes, but he spoke for longer than Newt had ever known him to, about the wonderful magical world that was Hogwarts. About ghosts, and house elves, and all the spells, and books, and artifacts. His enthusiasm was infectious and all Newt had to do was smile, which he had no trouble doing. 

At some point the last of the sunlight left the sky, and Dumbledore set out floating orbs to illuminate the clearing. Credence paused to touch one with childlike wonder in his eyes, and the Thestrals, having eaten their fill, retreated into the forest. 

"Our own dinner awaits us in the Great Hall," said Dumbledore gently. Newt knelt and wiped off his hands on the snow, and Credence copied him. He seemed struck, for a minute, by the sight of the bloody smear, and suddenly Dumbledore was there. 

Newt had had experience, many years of it, working with easily spooked creatures, and while he knew he shouldn't make the comparison out loud, he had handled Credence much like one of them, and he could have told Dumbledore not to do it, if only he'd had time. 

"My boy," said Dumbledore, and put a hand to Credence's shoulder. 

Credence stiffened. He didn't explode into the darkness of his Obscurial, but a few weeks ago, he might have. He'd spent a lot of time aboard the liner in Newt's case to avoid that, after one of the porters had taken his arm to steady him and his eyes had gone completely white. 

"Dinner," Dumbledore said blithely. Ignoring the tension was the best way to deal with it. Credence did not need to spiral back into guilt and self-loathing. He didn't even shake Dumbledore's hand off, and Newt trailed them back up to the castle. 

Not many students had stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. Neither had most of the professors, which was a relief to Newt as he'd barely avoided running into Headmaster Dippet the last time. The few who remained looked strange and sad, scattered across the Great Hall's five tables. 

Dumbledore had them sit at the Gryffindor table, which seemed to relax Credence. He returned to the wonders of Hogwarts, showed Newt his wand, and by the end of the meal seemed exhausted by all the talking and sporadic eye contact. He fought and failed to contain a yawn. 

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down at his plate, as though the crumbs on it were tea leaves. 

"That's all right," said Newt, as Dumbledore said, "You've had a long and full day, and that is nothing to apologize for. Do not feel you must struggle to stay awake on anyone's account."

Credence ducked his head again. "If I may be excused?"

"My dear boy, there is nothing to excuse you for."

Credence flushed, and mumbling his good nights hurried from the hall. 

Newt wasn't as good at reading people as he was animals, but he could tell Professor Dumbledore wanted to talk to him alone, and they didn't linger at the table long after Credence left.

Last time he'd snuck in, seen Dumbledore in his classroom after the last lesson of the day, explained the situation--although Dumbledore had seemed to know a great deal about it already--and had Credence climb out of his case and submit to a Disillusionment charm. He'd snuck back out of Hogwarts, almost as invisible as Dougal. 

He hadn't been to Dumbledore's office. He hadn't seen--

"You have a Phoenix," he said, his case falling to the floor with a thump.

"That is Fawkes," said Dumbledore, as Fawkes stretched out his great scarlet wings and preened. "And I'm not entirely sure who has whom."

Newt traced the plumage. It felt warm to the touch, like Frank sometimes had as a storm built up inside him. Fawkes nipped playfully at Newt's finger. 

"He's magnificent."

"I rather think so myself, but I have been told my opinions are somewhat unconventional." Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his eyes twinkling, and a small bottle of brandy hopped from the sideboard and splashed some liquor into two small glasses. Newt took one, though he wasn't much of a drinker. He didn't want to be rude. "I assume you want to know how young Credence is doing?"

"Er," said Newt. He had, but now he mostly wanted to ask about Fawkes--if he'd molted yet, what he ate, how well he adapted to being a pet, whether he had supplied any feathers for wands yet. "Yes?"

"He's adjusting," said Dumbledore "It helps he's had exposure to the wizarding world--from what I understand, his mother was a witch, although he doesn't remember much of her, but the imposter Graves and your friend Miss Goldstein gave him a decent idea of what magic is, if not entirely complete or accurate. And there was, of course, his adopted mother--however she felt about magic, at least she did not deny that it was real. He's a quick study, too, but one of my main concerns is to get him to focus his powers with his wand, to control his abilities. Uncontained, uncontrolled magic can be--". He cleared his throat and looked away. "--dangerous. As you saw."

"He didn't mean it."

"He did. He's not one of your sick hippogryffs, Newt." Newt took a hasty sip of the brandy and it burned all the way down. "Not all of it, but when he killed, he knew what the Obscurus was doing. He may not have intended all the damage, he may have acted out of pain, but he still knew. Which brings me to my second concern: Credence's emotional well-being."

"He seems to be doing all right here," said Newt. "When I saw him with the Thestrals, he was--improved." He didn't say that in his experience, it took time, that Frank had been touch and go for a while. Dumbledore might not want Newt thinking of Credence as just another creature, but humans, even wizards, were just animals when you got down to it. 

But it would have been the wrong thing to say, as was what he had said. "Improvement, for an Obscurial, is a rather low bar. He has been through a great deal. Muggles can be quite cruel to magic users, and the Second Salemers seem to have been worse than most. And then Grindelwald's emotional manipulation...." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It is difficult to heal when you have been hurt by those you thought loved you, almost as difficult as it is to heal from hurting those you love. I have been trying, with Credence, but I was wondering if it would not help if he had someone familiar, someone he could trust, here for the duration."

"Sir," said Newt, "I don't really think he trusts me--"

"Oh, no," said Dumbledore, and Newt felt guilty about how relieved he felt: relieved he could spent the time on his beasts and his book. "No, I meant the younger sister you mentioned, the Muggle. Do you think it would be possible--"

"No," said Newt. "The way they do things in America, MACUSA's surely wiped her memory by now. And even if they hadn't, she watched him kill their adoptive mother and their other sister. Grindelwald was talking about what he did like it was--something marvelous." He had been scared enough when he'd thought Graves had been taking his case to destroy his creatures, but in retrospect, knowing it was Grindelwald who'd gone in and found the Somali girl's Obscurus was more disconcerting. Newt wanted to convince wizards why all these wonderful magical animals should be allowed to live, allowed to flourish, and the speculative way Grindelwald looked at them and probably thought of the destruction they could wreak would count against the argument he was trying to make. 

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He would." The brandy bottle topped off their glasses. "Ah, well. I shall have to do the best I can with Credence. As you remarked, he is improving." He clapped his hands together. "And how have your holidays been? I believe this is the first time you've been back to England in what, two years?"

"Three," said Newt. 

"I imagine your family was quite glad to see you."

"Well, yes." Right up until his Niffler had stolen his brother's fiancée's engagement ring, but thankfully Appolina had just laughed it off and gotten it back by offering to trade a huge, clunky golden bracelet for it, a family heirloom she'd always hated, but which had become one of the little thief's most prized possessions. And Dougal had escaped again, but only to take tea with them. It could have gone a great deal worse, and instead it had been quite pleasant and barely anyone had pressed for too many details of what had happened in New York--although his mum had wanted him to tell him all he knew about Tina Goldstein, and been rather disappointed that he would describe her diet as consisting of street food, mostly cheap meat, with liberal amounts of cocoa at night, and her behavior as confrontational but also curious and compassionate. 

"And," said Dumbledore, like he knew the answer, "did you do any other socializing?"

"Yes," said Newt. "I met up with an old friend from Hogwarts. Well, my only friend from Hogwarts."

"And how is Leta, these days?" Dumbledore asked. He sounded calm, neutral, but Newt recognized the sense of a predator on the track of something that could lead to a kill. 

He scrunched up his nose. The Lestranges hadn't made much of an effort to hide their approval of Grindelwald, and yet Leta hadn't said anything about it. Had, in fact, completely ignored the topic of what Newt had done in New York, and everywhere else for that matter. "Gossipy." The latest scandal had something to do with the Malfoys having faked a family tree for someone who married one of them back in 1852, a witch who was merely a half-blood, and what was even worse, the Malfoys didn't even seem to care. (To be honest, neither did Newt.). And the Gaunts had done something scandalous earlier that year involving attacks on a Ministry official or a Muggle, Newt hadn't really been paying attention, but he had the sense that the real offense was that the Gaunts had reminded the rest of the wizarding world they existed, that they hadn't died out decades ago but stuck around to embarrass pureblood families by reminding them what happened when you stuck to a limited breeding pool. "A proud aunt, though. She showed me loads of pictures."

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Yes, a birth is always a happy occasion."

"It is," said Newt, remembering the baby Occamy curling around his hands, and the Graphorns' first cub, the promise that the species would not die out. Leta hadn't struck him as particularly fond of babies when they'd been at Hogwarts together, but people changed. She'd had a stack of pictures of her nephew, and had glowed when Newt had spotted his progression, complimented his health. In many other things she'd been as cool and cynical as ever, but not this. 

Still, he'd had the feeling that maybe he had not said everything right; that when tea was done, and she laid a hand on his shoulder kissed him on the cheek, he had failed to see something, to say something. 

Maybe she had wanted to talk to him about Grindelwald after all. 

"Well, if you should see her again, pass on my congratulations."

Newt nodded. He wasn't sure he would. See her again, or pass on his congratulations. Maybe Leta had changed, but he didn't think she'd changed that much. "She seemed quite--happy, sir."

"And why not? This last month has been a marked improvement over the eleven that preceded it. First France foolishly stopped regulating cursed cheese, then there was the plague in Russia, and then that unforeseen dragon migration up through Central America, and Sempit--"

"Sempiterna the Soprano died," said Newt. "They were actually quite devastated in Sudan."

"Ah, music," said Dumbledore happily. "It can bridge so many divides. Yes, poor Sempiterna. And then there was that mess in Hungary, and, of course, Grindelwald."

Grindelwald encompassed a lot more than the mess in Hungary. There had been a bridge collapse in Köln that even Newt had heard of, and a well-known wizarding author had gotten exploding flu while working on the much anticipated sixth of seven (or eight) volumes and left his fans a combination of angry and devastated. Everywhere Newt had gone, he heard complaints about 1926. 

"But Grindelwald was stopped," he said, and in the privacy of his own head added: Frank had gone home. Credence was saved. "Surely that has to count for something."

"Oh, quite." The brandy bottle wafted back to the liquor cabinet, and one of champagne floated it out, followed by two delicate flutes. Dumbledore conjured up a bucket of ice that the bottle nestled itself in as gently as an owl returning to roost. "We all deserve a bit of good news after such a run of bad luck--although in some cases luck does not enter into it, and what is to blame is sheer human stupidity."

Newt nodded. He'd certainly seen enough of that on his travels. 

If he hadn't spent the last few weeks at home, around people, he might have mentioned to Dumbledore what Grindelwald had said to MACUSA: that they would not be able to hold him. But he could tell Dumbledore wanted to celebrate, and besides, Grindelwald had never been captured before. Even if he escaped, they had proven they had done it once; they could do it again. 

And he could see on Dumbledore's desk some charcoal drawings with notes all along them. From his perspective the writing was upside down, but Newt had travelled the world, finding and frequently freeing creatures. He recognized a cage when he saw one.

He looked up, and found Dumbledore watching him, and it was clear Dumbledore knew that Newt had seen what he was working on. 

He remembered Grindelwald floating the Obscurus out of his trunk, and asking what good was it, if it couldn't survive outside. He remembered Grindelwald turning his wand on Tina. 

He thought that maybe, maybe sometimes a cage might not be a bad thing. 

"Well," said Dumbledore, as if by Newt's silence he'd agreed to something, and with a flick of his wand the cork went flying out of the champagne bottle, "I dare say it's midnight somewhere." He held up his glass, and Newt let his clink very gently against it. "I wouldn't be surprised tonight if wizards and witches all over the world were lifting their glasses and drinking to December 31, 1926."

\--

In London, one witch was not. She was so worn and ragged she might not have even known it was the end of the year when she stumbled into a Muggle orphanage. Certainly she wasn't worried about le fromage damné, or mourning Sempiterna the Soprano. The year had taken much more from her than that. 

The labor was quick and undemanding, but she barely had the breath to give his name to the Muggle girl at her side, and was dead before he gave his first cry, which went ignored as the few Muggles in attendance crowded around her, as did his second.

He would be a quiet baby. A quiet child. And for a time, the orphanage staff would be hard-pressed to remember him, because he was no trouble at all.


End file.
